


The only One

by HannaHazzard



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:59:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaHazzard/pseuds/HannaHazzard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor meets friends, detective doesn't like it, because he needs his Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he set out from the Themse right after his little confrontation with the three thugs that stole the blue-star jewel from his client. But he had finally reached his goal.

Holmes sighed in exhaustion and leaned heavily against the house he was standing in front of, taking a much needed pause. He took a quick glance at his left side, just above his hip, and was glad to see that the bleeding had slowed a bit. He pressed his right hand, already stained with bright, red blood, back to the aching wound.

Of course, from his many studies of the human body and medicine, he was certain that the injury wasn't life threatening, merely a flesh wound caused by an 3.5 inches knife with an wooden handle, oak, if he wasn't mistaken, which he never was, and of course a six feet and two inches muscle man who managed, despite his clumsy fighting technique, to get through the detectives defence while he was distracted by a five feet three inches thug, dark brown hair, big nose and grey eyes, who was throwing stones at him. _Stones_. What happened to the old fashioned, fair, hand to hand combat?

Anyway, while this damage to his body was not perilous, at least not if he stopped this bleeding in the near future, it was admittedly bothersome. Add a stinging head wound, which thankfully stopped bleeding some time ago, that was causing his vision to occasionally tilt in directions out of the norm, and the consulting detective was convinced enough to seek a little help. Of course only one person comes in question for this said assistance.

Even if this person earlier mentioned he that was unwilling to lend his support tonight.

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes as he contemplated the case that was presented to him by an older Lady, approximately 67 years old, grey hair, figure rather small and plump, who was constantly dabbing a kerchief to her leaking eyes. Obviously very distraught by the disappearance of the family heirloom._

_This was no case he would usually accept, that was for sure. This crime had a definite lack of mystery, there was no puzzle to solve for the genius man, everything was painfully clear to him in a matter of little time._

_The grandson of the Lady, Joshua Cambridge, was well known for his drinking, gambling and loving the expensive women. He was also known for being in debt to many dangerous people. This added by the fact that two individuals the grandson was noted to be with very often, were seen during the assumed time of crime, lingering in front of the house of the Lady…well, it was no mystery at all._

_And if Mrs Cambridge wasn't so naïve to believe that being family rules one out as a suspect, he was sure the jewel would already be back at it's normal place._

_But despite this, the detective couldn't deny that the timing of the assignment was unblemished. And that was the only reason he accepted, making Mrs Cambridge cry more, with happiness now._

_He send the annoying woman, who kept on thanking him over and over, even though he had done nothing yet, on her way and skipped over to the room of his flatmate. Suddenly in a very good mood._

" _Watson!" he knocked loudly on the door, "Watson, come on. We have a new case. The game is afoot, old chap."_

_He took a step back when the scowling doctor came out of his room, straightening one of his best suit jackets. "Holmes, what are you talking about? I have already told you a week ago that I am having dinner tonight with three friends from my old medical school." He said, and went to retrieve his coat and cane._

" _Really?" Holmes sniffed and shrugged his shoulders, "Must have slipped my mind."_

_The doctor gave an exasperated sigh and threw him an annoyed glare while fixing the collar of his coat. "Holmes. I told you twenty minutes ago that I'd be leaving in half an hour. I'm sorry," he didn't sound very sorry, "but you will have to work on this one alone."_

" _So you would rather go to an unimportant social gathering, instead of bringing justice to the streets of London? Your home?"_

" _Holmes," Watson pinched his nose in frustration, "I have brought enough justice to London already. I deserve one evening off with my friends!"_

_Sherlock only raised an indifferent eyebrow to the other mans agitation. "Is it really justifiable to call people you haven't seen in what? 10 years? Friends?"_

" _What the devil is wrong with you? Are you jealous or something?"_

" _Preposterous! Why would I be that?" the detective crossed his arms, and looked suspiciously like a petulant child. "I am merely trying to save you from a dreary evening with equally stodgy company."_

" _Whatever." John threw up his hands and left for the stairs. "I don't know when I'll be back, good evening Mr Holmes."_

_But the detective wasn't giving up yet and followed to the railing of the stairs, "So you would let me walk alone into a situation that could have the possibility of being potentially dangerous?"_

_This actually halted the leaving man in the second last step. But in the end he turned and looked up to the other man with a look that was not amused, "Holmes, if this could be dangerous, take a damn Yarder, ask Lestrade or Clarky. You will not ruin my evening Holmes. You have survived without me before, you can manage now as well." He reasoned non to gently and walked on, ignoring the glare he was receiving. "Later, Holmes." And he walked out. "And take your revolver!" came one last muffled shout through the door._

" _You take your revolver!"_

* * *

And so it came to be that he went alone after the henchmen, he had a reputation to uphold after all. And no matter how boring, he'd accepted and would not go against his word no matter what.

So Holmes had tracked them down with little difficult to the house of one of those men, right by the Themse. He had even called for Lestrade, so he could arrest the criminals, but as always his promptness in appearance leaves something to be desired and he didn't want to wait around while the thugs walked away to sale the jewel for the best price. Thus the fight.

Well, he had left the five unconscious, unprofessional fighter there for Scotland Yard to find and set out with the missing heirloom safely in his pocket, it was _his_ case after all, to 'the NewMoon', the premise Watson wanted to meet his…acquaintances tonight.

Really, what did he need those conceited doctors for anyway? Wasn't one haughty detective enough?

Anyhow, the bleeding wouldn't stop on it's own, not that it could with Sherlock walking around, so he needed a doctor. _His_ doctor.

He pushed himself away from the supportive wall and pressed his hand a little harder on his wound, hiding the unpleasant sight with his black jacket before going as dignified as he could over the street and to the entrance of 'the NewMoon'.

He has been here more than once with Watson already, but he never liked it very much, the tables too close to each other, the personnel wasn't attentive enough for his liking, and the food was only sub-prime.

Not to mention that his assistant is dining with _those_ people here…but that didn't matter to him.

Panting, Holmes made it finally into the restaurant. But scanning the crowded place for Watson proofed to be a little difficult with his vision swimming in and out of focus, and the room seemed to sway from side to side…or was it him? Well, it would be very beneficial if the bleeding could be stopped soon.

He squinted his eyes, running his gaze over the people, but if he was honest with himself, they were looking all the same to him. Everything way to bleary.

"Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?"

Wow, Holmes took a step back from the…blurry blob beside him, where did he come from?

"No," he mumbled, turning back to search for Watson, maybe he should just call his name? "I'm just looking for…"

"Oh my Lord, sir, you are bleeding!" So much for stating the obvious. Deciding that standing around won't help matters, he pushed the babbling employee out of the way and stumbled to the tables. At least that was the plan, but the world gave a tilt and he found himself crashing into the first one, then to the floor.

He heard people screaming, probably the ones whose dinner he'd just destroyed, and saw many crowding in on him. Then the waiter, or whatever he was, again. "Hello! Is a doctor present? We need a doctor!" he was screaming way too loud in the detectives opinion, but he had other problems at the moment. Like picking himself off of the floor with unruly legs.

The man got it wrong. He didn't need _a_ doctor. He needed _his_ doctor.

"Watson?" his intention was to call out, but it sounded more like a whisper, pathetic to his own ears. He felt thirsty and the one word was scratching his throat. "Watson." Trying again didn't bring any improvement. Maybe his calculation had been a little off and he had already lost more blood than he expected.

He looked down to his side, no still seeping with the same speed as before. Left hand to his head, oh yes, that had started to bleed again. A hand to his shoulder pushing him down…where did that come from. Ah, the annoying doctor caller once more. "A doctor!"

"No," he said in voice that couldn't be recognized as his own, "I don't need a doctor…"

"Sir, please lay down again. You are hurt and confused. Ah yes," he saw the maybe-waiter look up to three other hazy men, before he looked back at Holmes. "these man are physicians, they will help you, sir." He didn't want their help! Couldn't they understand that?

The people came down and loomed over him, making him even more dizzy as he tried to follow all three of them. "Watson." Hands were beginning to prod at his head, his side, seemingly everywhere, way too many. Feebly he tried pushed the hands away but they were in the majority.

Protesting words like "Keep your hands away." Or "Leave me alone." Were falling on deaf ears…or just unintelligible, he wasn't sure, but it did annoy him. He didn't want their help, what were they doing anyway? This wound poking wasn't very productive. Yes he had two bleeding holes, where no holes should be, for doctors that should be obvious _without_ prodding.

He squinted up to the strangers, for none of those doctors was Watson, of that he was sure, and finally he couldn't take it anymore. Holmes pushed them away with sudden adrenalin like strength and scrambled to his wobbly feet, stepping away from the crowed of people that were surrounding him.

Still they didn't get it, advancing on the detective like hunting animals, saying something he couldn't understand. Sherlock backed away further until his back hit something solid, presumably a wall.

"Watson!" he called again, and this time he was sure it came out with more volume.

One of the people grabbed his arm rather forcefully, trying to pull him? Push him down? He wasn't even sure what the man wanted, but he sure _didn't_ want it. He was about to let instinct take over, to knock the guy over if he wouldn't listen any other way, when someone else interfered, taking the hand from Holmes arm by grabbing the others wrist.

Sherlock's vision still wouldn't allow him to discern anyone by the looks, but the newcomer looked non too pleased, and when he turned his back to the detective to direct his annoyance to the bunch, almost physically pushing them away to give the wounded man room to breath, Holmes knew he had finally found the man he came here for. Only one man would go against a crush of people for him.

Sherlock now allowed himself to sag against the wall behind him and slid down towards to the floor slowly, but he was halted once again by a hand on his arm, firm, but not painful like the last, he had no doubt of who had a hold of him so he managed a smile.

"Always nice to see you Watson…well, if my eyes wouldn't betray me, that is."


	2. Chapter 2

Doctor John Watson stifled a yawn for the…he didn't know how many times. He wasn't sure what he found more annoying. The fact that his 'friends' had turned into uptight, humourless, boring, not to mention rather fat people who only practised in an expensive private clinic these days or that Holmes had been right once again.

Of course, Holmes was usually always right, but not really when it comes to Watson doing something the detective doesn't want. Then the genius doesn't even think about it, he just says what he hopes will stop Watson from doing whatever he is intending to do. Like meeting other friends.

During their study time they had had a lot of fun. Going out in the evenings, drinking a bit, a little gambling, they helped each other learning, it was great. Then they had worked at different places, the meetings became rare, and then, Watson went to war, and the contact stopped completely.

After he came back, managed to get back on his feet after his injury and moved in with Holmes, he tried to contact them, but they'd become very busy people.

Now all of them had wife and children. Of course, that wasn't the boring part, Watson himself hoped he would someday have a wife and child of his own, but well, aren't there any other topics at all?

Only family and the work. Had they no free time at all to speak of? Couldn't they at least try to include him in any of their conversation? Why did Jones even ask him to join them for dinner?

They had met by coincidence, Henry Jones and he, when Watson was on his way home from taking a walk with Gladstone.

They'd come to talk and Watson had learned that his old friends, Henry Jones, James Cole and Charles Brown all worked together at the St. Leonard hospital.

John knew it was a place only the richest can afford. Care for the highest price. He himself didn't like that place very much, not because he couldn't afford it, but because it was that expensive in the first place. What about people who didn't have enough money? Would they throw them out wounded and sick?

But he wouldn't judge his old study partners, at least they were working as doctors.

Watson not so much. Well he does have occasionally patients, but he's not working in a hospital of course. And how could he? He's mostly away on cases with Holmes. And it's not that he is complaining. He liked the excitement of a case and the company of the genius man, his friend… but still, he liked being a doctor as well, and sometimes it was nice to just do what he'd learned to do, to help an ailing man, or woman, or child.

When Jones asked him where was is working now, John had even felt a bit awkward telling the obvious successful doctor that he was not working anywhere but helping the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Surprisingly the other man had become very interested then.

And in the end, he had asked Watson to join his old friends for dinner.

So here they where…Watson wished he was somewhere else.

His easy going, relaxed, kind friends have turned kind of uptight, strict, conceited. Looks like money does change.

Watson kept on eating his dinner, only half listening while the others talked about how good their home life was going right now, or what 'idiots' they were working with, and just smiled politely when they looked in his direction.

Who would have thought he would be way happier right now if he would be chasing after whatever criminals Holmes is pursuing right now?

Hopefully Holmes didn't do anything stupid while being alone on the case.

Maybe he shouldn't have let him go a…

"John?"

He quickly raised his eyes from his food to look at his company. "Excuse me. What was that?"

James gave a polite smile and repeated his question. "We were asking how you have fared since you got back from Afghanistan?" Oh now, after over an hour, they are asking themselves that. "I saw a picture of you in the Newspaper concerning a case of Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes, this…detective, isn't he?"

"Consulting detective, yes." John corrected automatically. "He is my flat mate, I join him on his cases."

"Yes, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, I've heard about him." Charles said, "He was working for a friend of mine, Thomas, you remember him?" James and Henry nodded, "He said, this Holmes was a rather…strange character?" all three looked expectantly at Watson. So they didn't really care how he'd fared at all. They were just curious.

Watson stopped eating to focus completely on his company. "Elaborate 'strange character'." He frowned suspiciously. "We all have our flaws, Charles. Holmes is of course no exception."

"Of course we do, of course." Conceded Brown at once. "But you see, people say," Oh so it's not only this Thomas, but now it's 'people', Watson thought. "that the detective is almost…freakish in his way. He sees and knows things other wouldn't even think about. He is described as arrogant and unfriendly, in appearance a man of steel with no compassion at all to speak of. You as his flatmate should know it best, I believe?"

John clenched his hands to fists and tried really hard to suppress his anger and annoyance. He wasn't here to talk about Holmes. Especially not in the way his former colleague was doing it. What did he know? Nothing.

He was about to end this issue when the other two began as well.

"Yes. I've heard that as well. The police is supposed to have a problem with that man, too. It seems he is always getting involved in matters of Scotland Yard, hindering them in doing their job." James chimed in.

If Watson wouldn't be getting so angry he would be laughing. So it's called hindering when Holmes does the work the Yarders are too imbecile to do?

"I have also heard about him." Henry joined in, "my neighbour, Mrs. Clark, told me about the people he associated with, her son had seen him fighting in a dirty box ring, in one of the dirty parts of London. And due to his knowledge about the criminal world, people believe he has his hand in one crime or another of his own. An easily believable conclusion, if you asked me."

Henry, James and Charles became engaged in a conversation about what they all 'knew' about Sherlock Holmes and John couldn't believe it. They had been so open to other people during their study time and now? How could people change so much?

All he could hear was, 'a freak, not human, narcissist, criminal, a _machine_ '

And that's it. Watson hit the table with both of his hands in anger and rose to his feet, ignoring the people seated at other tables around them starring at him now, and glared at the men he once called friends.

"Is that the reason you asked me to join you tonight?" he hissed and looked at each of the suddenly silent, shocked doctors. "For your information, he is not only my roommate and associate but also my closest friend. He definitely has his negative ways, no one can deny that and he wouldn't even try. But that you have the audacity to sit here and talk about him, who has helped more people than one could count, _including_ the _wonderful_ Scotland Yard, like some low life person who has no good quality to speak of." He locked eyes with all three of them, but they didn't seem very remorseful, more embarrassed to be the centre of the restaurant.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, talking like that about a man who has done so much for others. He has probably saved more lives than you did in your fancy hospital. You don't even know him and just parrot things 'people' have said or Thomas, or Mrs. Clark, who has obviously failed to mention that Sherlock Holmes had saved her little daughter from the clutches of the widows new lover, who was only after the Lady's money!"

Angrily, he took out his wallet and put the money for his dinner on the table. "If you would be so kind as to pay my dinner when you are ready. I have lost my appetite." And with that he turned, grabbed his cane and went to the men's room to cool off before he would retrieve his coat and leave for home. Leaving behind three embarrassed doctors and a curious staring crowd, staring at them and him walking away, whispering among themselves.

He slammed the door behind him.

Damn. What a waste of an evening.

He leaned over the sink to splash some water in his face and then took a moment just to breath.

Stupid fools.

All he wanted to do was go home now. Hopefully Holmes would be back as well. With his comfortable company this night could still take a turn for the better. Maybe the other would tell him about his case.

But really! What is wrong with people these days? Not only his 'friends' are bad mouthing Holmes, he had heard others before. The detective was well aware of the fact but just seemed to shrug it off.

He always said he didn't care what other people thought about him, it wasn't his fault that people feared the truth Holmes had no problems of voicing. And he was just being himself, didn't bend to society to please other. That should be something to admire, not to insult.

But while Sherlock says he doesn't care, it definitely angered Watson when he hears whispered comments. Usually Holmes is there then, and stops the doctor with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, before he can get over to confront the speakers.

How some humans can just be so…ungrateful. Even man and women Holmes had helped, risked his life for, just tend to talk about his negative characteristics.

Yes, Watson complained as well. About Holmes' attitude, his cloth stealing, his experiments, his moods, his drugs…about a lot. But that was different. Watson had the right to complain. Because it's the way they work. Because he didn't do it behind the detectives back. Because it's not meant to harm. Because John _cared_.

He sighed. Alright. With a nod to himself he straightened up his jacket and went out of the bathroom. Time to go home.

But when he came trough the door, his attention was immediately caught by a commotion at the entrance.

A mob had formed in a circle, people talking and whispering, dinner tables left and forgotten. What was going on? Somebody fainted? As a doctor he felt the need to investigate, to see if he could help, but among the people he could see Brown, Jones and Cole kneeling. Three doctors should be enough, and he didn't really feel like joining the curious people, standing around unnecessarily.

So he retrieved his coat and squeezed through the crowd so he could finally leave for home.

Women behind him began to screech in surprise suddenly and he could make out his former colleagues talking.

" _Calm down, man. We are only trying to help you!"_

Then he heard a voice that stopped him in his tracks, making his heart beat wildly. Watson couldn't make out the words, but that only worried him even more.

He turned quickly and now no one was kneeling anymore. One man was backing away from the crowd that was following him. One man that seemed awfully familiar and had Watson hurrying back before he realized it.

With maybe unnecessary force he pushed his way trough to the centre, ignoring the protest of people he shoved aside.

For a second he couldn't help but freeze. He's a doctor, he is not supposed to freeze in this sort of situations, he knew, but that didn't change the fact that he did.

Holmes was leaning against a wall, sluggishly bleeding from a nasty head wound and…his side? It was hard to tell with his dark clothes. Damn. The detective looked almost a bit lost as he squinted at the men closing in on him, his feeble attempts to ward them off obviously unsuccessful.

Two things happened that finally prompted Watson out of his stupor and had him moving faster than his bad leg should allow.

First the almost desperate cry, clearly understandable this time, coming from Holmes.

" _Watson!"_

And then, Henry Jones made the mistake of grabbing his friend non too gently and pulling him away from the wall, making him hiss in pain.

His eyes darkened at the mistreatment of the injured detective and he stomped over. What kind of doctors were they? Crowding a clearly agitated patient and almost trying force their 'help' on him.

In Afghanistan they could have been shot by their very patients if they overwhelmed them in this fashion. And this was no mere patient. This was Holmes. His friend. _His_ patient.

"Get the hell away from him!" he groused and grabbed Jones' wrist to remove the unwelcome hand on Holmes' arm.

Brown and Cole had already stepped back a little at the fury they'd seen on their former study partner's face, but Jones only had the decency to look surprised.

"John don't be ridicules. This man needs care. We are doctors, you know." The smug way Henry said that made Watson almost feel ashamed to be a physician himself. Hopefully he didn't seem like he feels like a god among men when he announces himself as a medical man.

"And he will get care! But definitely not from people like you, now step. away. From him!"

Watson pushed the man in the direction of the bunch and away from Holmes. "All of you! You had your fill of excitement. Let the man breath." He felt only slightly satisfied, because only a few actually did leave, but at least they went a little further back.

His eyes then fell on the only man who looked worried and a bit anxious, well, maybe man was a bit much, kid was better fitting, he didn't look older then seventeen. It was the Waiter that had served his table earlier and judging from the little specks of blood on his hand he had already been in close contact with Holmes. Hopefully trying to help.

"You." He addressed him more kindly than the others, still the lad looked a bit frightened when he looked up at Watson. "Can you get me some towels or something and hail a hansom for me?"

The boy's eyes widened a bit but nodded eagerly, "Yes, sir." He said more steady than he looked and scrambled away to do as he was told.

Finally, the doctor turned his back to the still watching bunch of people and turned his attention to his ailing friend, who was by now slowly sliding down the wall he leaned up against.

"Holmes?" he asked softly, concerned, shoving his annoyance away for now, his hand automatically going to the wounded man's arm. Gentle over the rough grip from moments before.

Sherlock squinted up at him and his pupils are so dilated, concussion, Watson mused, that John doubts he recognizes him. He should have known better.

"Always nice to see you Watson…well, if my eyes wouldn't betray me, that is." His voice is a bit slurred, the energy that had kept him on his feet obviously spent, but Watson could understand him perfectly. He smiled despite himself, and helped him down to sit on the floor, leaning up against the wall.

"Holmes, old fool, you would do anything to ruin my evening, wouldn't you?" he chided fondly in an attempt to keep Holmes alert and turned his unresisting head by the chin to look at the injury at Holmes temple. Thankfully only a few droplets still escaped, but with all the dried blood caked around it, it was hard to tell how bad it was.

"Pf. I was just-just in the neighbour-ow. Gently, Watson." He winced as John peeled away layers of clothes from his side. "'s ok. Just a scratch."

"That," the doctor murmured when he finally revealed the wound, "is definitely more than a scratch." He examined the injury as good as he could at the moment. "But it could have been worse

"Here are the towels, doctor." The waiter appeared suddenly beside them. "I will get you the carriage right away." And he was gone before Watson could say so much as thanks.

John took one of the towels and wiped away some of the blood, but a lot was already dried.

"How long have you been running around, Holmes? You don't stroll through the streets with a damn stab wound." He could feel some of his annoyance rising again, but this time more born out of concern. Holmes can be so daft when it comes to his own wellbeing.

"I wasn't strolling." The detective frowned. "I was making sure my wounds were being seen to. You always complain when I take care of them myself. Make up your mind." John was sure, had Holmes the energy this would have come out sharper. As it was, it just sounded like tired complaining, bordering on sulking.

How could one be angry at that?

"Next time," he sighed and took a new towel. The bleeding wasn't so bad anymore, but he would still need to stitch it up later. "you refrain from leaving a red trail through the city and go to more immediate help."

"That's absurd. When you are away, how am I supposed to get immediate help?" the consulting detective yawned, he hadn't realised how tired he felt.

"By going to _another_ doctor, moron." Truth was, Watson did prefer to tend to his friend himself, but better Holmes goes to someone else than bleeding out while waiting for him.

Due to a lack of helpful supplies, the doctor took off his belt, intending to use it to press a towel against the damage. Wasn't a perfect solution, but it would do for now.

" _You_ are my doctor. Don't try to push me to someone else so you can have more free time." His eyes closed on their own accord but they shot open again when Watson pushed the cloth to his side and secured it there. "Ow doctor! Do you have to do that?" he hissed irritated.

"Sir, your hansom is waiting outside." Right on time.

"Thank you." John would have patted the lads shoulder, but didn't think he would appreciate a red handprint.

"Come on, old chap. I'll take you home." Carefully he drew Holmes' right arm over his shoulder, put his own left arm around the injured man's waist and as gentle as he could, brought them both to a standing position.

Sherlock grunted and closed his eyes. "You haven't even treated me for dinner yet, doctor Watson," he panted "What do you take me for? I'm not cheap." He tried to bear his own weight as good as he could, but his body refused to do as he wanted, so he leaned heavily on the doctor.

"Sure you are." Watson snorted, "I know the payment you took for some cases. Now come on." Looking around, Watson was not pleased to see that people were still standing around them, watching curiously. Didn't they have anything better to do? And to top it all, Jones stood right in the entrance, blocking the way.

The ex-Soldier stared at the man, feeling himself getting angry again when he didn't move one bit aside.

"Would you _kindly_ let us pass, _doctor Jones_." He said in a tone that suggested the other better do as he asked.

"So this is…"

"Out of the way, man." Watson hissed and finally the other complied. Without another word, John supported his now silent friend further to the door, but he stopped again when he heard the crowd behind them whispering again, the name Sherlock Holmes falling more than once. He could feel Holmes hand patting his shoulder sluggishly "You know I don't care…" he tried to calm the doctor before his rising fury got the best of him.

"I _know_ you don't!" he snapped, then took a breath to calm himself, he turned his head to glare at the onlookers over his shoulder, "I hope at least _some_ of you are educated enough to realise, that machines don't bleed."

And with that he led the detective outside, thankfully the hansom was right in front of the house, they just needed to get down the stairs…which seemed endless.

"So," Holmes drawled tiredly, "I take it your evening was already – ahh careful, Watson. – was already ruined." He tried to lighten his supporters mood. But he got a scowl in response.

"I can't say your performance brought me any improvement. I was hoping to safe it by enjoying a quiet evening at home." The doctor dispraised, but at least he didn't seem angry anymore, Holmes would take what he could get.

"But you can still do that. I'm certain I will be _real_ quiet tonight." He yawned as if to proof his point, which at least earned him a chuckle.

"Oh, of that I'm sure."

When the carriage driver saw the two struggling down the steps, he hurried down to open the door of the hansom for them, for which Watson was really grateful.

Almost there.

"It's no problem, old chap. Hope you learned from this pratfall, that you don't need other friends."

"Don't bring me down to your level, Holmes." Watson couldn't help but grin, "I still got my rugby pals."

"Yeah, but…"

"And some fellow soldiers."

"Ok, but…"

"And don't forget, Mrs Hudson always liked me best."

"Now you're aggrandizing. Nanny's trying to poison me, and you never care."

Finally they reach the last step, and both of them were smiling.

The rest of the way wasn't far.

"I think we need to find another establishment to dine, old man." Watson grunted as he helped the severely weakened man into the cab. "After you bled all over the floor, and with that society in there, I'm not very keen on returning."

"Fine with me," Holmes sighed as he could finally relax for a moment, "never liked this place anyway. And the name. New Moon. Absurd. There is no such thing as a _new_ Moon, it's always the same. And this restaurant, can't be compared to a Moon at all. I heard 'the Royal' sets an excellent table." He mumbled and Watson grew a bit concerned when he had problems understanding his friend again.

"Holmes. No sleeping yet." John climbed into the carriage as well and shook Sherlock's shoulder.

The cabbie closed the door and waited for an address expectantly.

"I'm not sleeping, doctor." Holmes protested, "Home, good man. And please don't spare the horses." He said to the driver and let his head flop down to Watson's shoulder. Who sighed and turned to the driver himself, "Baker Street 221b, please." The man nodded and climbed back to his place.

"Wait! Wait!"

Watson frowned and looked out of the window to see the Waiter boy running towards them. He motioned for the cabby to wait, and the young man came up to the hansom.

"You left your cane, doctor Watson." He panted from his sprint. Oh right, thank god the kid brought him his walking stick. It would have been quite a loss. John pulled out his wallet, the least he can do is give him a tip for all his help.

But he was stopped by an "Oh no sir, I don't want your money." And the doctor frowned when the boys eyes fixed on Holmes, now he looked a bit nervous again.

"And you left your hat, Mr Holmes. It fell down when…well when y-you fell down." Watson was about to take the black bowler, when he continued.

"I-I just wanted to say that it has been an h-honour to personally meet you, sir. I love to hear and read about your cases. There are so many people you have helped. You are truly a genius man." He stuttered out and Holmes actually moved his head on Watson's shoulder to look in the direction of the overanxious young man. "I hope you feel better soon, sir." He finished sincerely and Watson couldn't help but feel warmed by the speech. So at least one is honestly appreciating what his friend does.

And it seemed, like he had also rendered Holmes a little speechless, who was still squinting at the lad, much to the doctors amusement.

"Well, I…" he sniffed his nose like he often does. "You can keep the hat." He muttered and

turned his head away again.

Watson chuckled and thanked the now grinning kid again properly who then left to go back to the NewMoon.

The carriage finally began to move, and even though his reunion didn't go as well as hoped, and his friend was still hurt, tired, and in need of some stitches, he also felt a bit contend. He realised that he shouldn't mourn about friends in his past, because there was a reason they didn't make it into his present. He learned that his insufferable Holmes would rather bleed to death before he would go to another doctor, which was just _horrible_! But also a bit touching. And he got to know that not everyone is talking bad about his partner.

He relaxed into the seat and put his arm around Holmes shoulder, so the detective could lean better against him, and then started to brace himself for when he would have to haul Sherlock up to their rooms.

Well, everything could have gone worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed


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